“I want to write,” I said, because I’ve started to say it more out loud.
Time was, I asked the question inside, only to myself. What do you want to do? What do you want to do? What do you want to do?
And it always is to write.
I know that. Like you know that you have blood and brains and skin. Simply, it exists within me. And not so simply too.
Yet, I don’t say it to other people too much.
So the other day I said it to my friend.
“I want to write.”
Not in the way I used to say it. Like they were just words.
No, I threw my whole body into it. The words were blood and brains and skin. The words were a brand, a tattoo, a birthmark. A mission, incarnate.
Do you know?
“Why isn’t it easier? Why don’t people notice? Why am I not making money?” “Why aren’t I good enough?” And other sorry, self-pitying things like that.
There! Just words again.
And: “Where is my voice? I can’t find it.”
The most important question of all.
My friend looked at me straight on. She told me: “You don’t trust your voice.”
I thought about that for a minute.
She was right.
If I just let it out the way it sounds in my head I’d feel relief and release and like a tire that’s popped. Out I’d come, whistling like escaped air.
And it wouldn’t matter if no one noticed or if I made money or if I were good enough.
Because I’d be at peace and what would follow would follow.
It’s like this:
I square my shoulders, heave my breath in and out, in and out, stare, accept. Be blank. I sit there like a satellite dish and accept signals and electric divinity. I’m a MagnaDoodle. The words appear, just plain out of nowhere and my fingers beckon, bring them close, circle the energy around, around, around, and shoot it at the page. Lightning bolts. Zip! Crackle! PaPow! And there it is.
There it is.
The sky whispers and sends the wind.
The wind reaches with slender fingers, inexplicably light. Blows my hair straight up. Stronger now. It grabs at the rest of me.
Pulling, pulling, pulling.
I go, willingly.
To find my voice.
Somewhere up there, amidst the lightning.